inside me when I press my hand
through the cage and squeeze hard
until the bubbles and sponge pop
in complex mathematics and chip models and
crush solid states into water logs and
aniworks and air brushed fox fires
on dried grasses on the heels of
another sleepless drive
that you do not believe in me
in the face of sun and sky
and so much perfect line work
in the space of white and gold and
eggshell broken knowingness
spilling across the heat of your eyes
in fragments I can match,
perhaps, in self destruction.
